


under your skin the moon is alive

by yonicdrivethru



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alcoholics Anonymous, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Cravings, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Intricate Rituals, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining, Recovery, Repressed Memories, Repression, Tenderness, boris just wants to be with his boyfriend why is this so hard, hand holding, it's hard to be closeted and sober y'all take it from me, the author is projecting your honor, theo has been to therapy and knows one (1) distress tolerance technique, theo is sober from substances but not from Boris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 19:09:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20711066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonicdrivethru/pseuds/yonicdrivethru
Summary: "Nothing is ever going to feel better than getting high, and you are almost okay with that."---At eight months sober, Theo remembers.





	under your skin the moon is alive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hexameters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexameters/gifts).

_ Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand –_  
_And mine – the distant Sea –_  
_Obedient to the least command  
_ _Thine eye impose on me –_

\--- 

1.

Nothing is ever going to feel better than getting high, and you are almost okay with that. 

It was a simple math: after a while, the tiny costs added up to outweigh the benefits. The pills turned on you - turns out, heavy drug use is incompatible with a life built on honesty and reconciliation. You could no longer reliably show up to client meetings or to dinner. And worst of all, rather than keeping the dreams at bay, the pills now made them worse - they bled into reality, leaving you half-crazed, half-asleep, and desperate for relief. 

And so, a few months after returning from Amsterdam, you landed in the detox unit, which had landed you here - Theo Decker, a most unlikely Friend of Bill’s. 

Things are different now. You take your medication on the dot, when the little alarm trills from Hobie’s old wristwatch. When you clatter awake at 2 a.m., ears ringing and heart bursting from your chest, you do the breathing exercises they taught you at the hospital instead of reaching for the Altoid tin in your bedside table. 

No, you’ve decided. Your days in the delicious, delirious wilderness are over - until you see oily curls glint in the hazy bar light, quick black eyes laughing, and you are plunged under, blind, drowning.

\---

2.

In early sobriety (and, according to the meetings, eight months and eleven days clean still counts as “early sobriety” - though as far as you’re concerned, it’s been several lifetimes), you are supposed to avoid difficult situations that may make you want to use. Another simple math equation. Anything that might make you want to use - no matter how delightful - just isn’t worth it in your fragile state.

The nurse made the whole unit write out a list of their top triggers, using stubby golf pencils on printer paper. Your list wasn’t much to look at. Most of the people in your real life - Hobie, your clients, the Barbours - weren’t the type to indulge in more than a few glasses of wine on a special occasion. 

At the end of the day, you end up with two items:

  1. The Dreams
  2. Boris

\---

3.

Trigger Number 2 claps you on the back.

“A year feels like a lifetime now, no? I am getting spoiled! Please, sit, sit, I have so much to share with you. Where is our waiter?” 

You watch him chatter on excitedly, throwing his coat off of his bony shoulders and shaking the snow out of his hair, and realize with a sinking sensation that you are _ definitely _ not drunk enough for this.

\---

4.

“You know what I think, Potter?” Boris bows his head conspiratorially, looking up at you through his dark lashes. Your stomach drops. “I think...we need shots.”

You swallow. Nowhere to hide.

“Actually - I don’t drink anymore. At all. Trying to stay clean these days.” You briefly consider showing him your eight month chip, briefly consider making a run for it, decide against both.

Boris is, unsurprisingly, alarmed by your confession. He scowls, storm clouds gathering, makes that uniquely Slavic scoff of derision - _ pfah _. 

“Slowing down already? Don’t tell me you are getting too old to have fun!” He locks eyes with you, defiant, as he takes a swig from his beer.

You hold his gaze, willing the years of nonverbal communication to come back online: _ I need you to listen to me, I am trying now. I need to do this. Please let me do this. _

Whether the attempt at Vulcan mind-melding worked or not, you will never know, but miraculously Boris backs off, raising his hands in a shrug: _ what’s it to me? _He sets down his drink, extends his hand across the table instead. 

“No problem. We don’t need to drink to enjoy each other’s company, yes?” He grins, perfect veneers failing to mask the wickedness there. Long nails trace the thin blue lines of your wrist. Your pulse jumps to life, thrumming under his touch: _ more, more, more… _

“Where are you going?” Boris rises with you.

“I just need some fresh air. Give me a second, okay?”

\---

5.

_ In-Two-Three-Four _

_ Hold-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven _

_ Out-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven-Eight _

_ In-Two-Three-Four…_

You count as you fumble for a cigarette in the alleyway, hands shaking. All you need to do is not use for the next second. All you need to do is not use for the next breath. All you need to do is not use for the next cigarette.

You can feel it, is the thing: the rush in your veins, behind your eyes. The sensation you get when the roller coaster finally, _ finally _ goes down. And another, twin rush - skin burning up under your lips, long fingers pressing bruises into your hips, sweat pooling at the back of your knees... 

Say what you will about drugs, but they sure did a hell of a job keeping this kind of shit at bay. For a while, anyway.

You inhale, close your eyes, lean your head back against the brick wall. Waits for it to pass. For the past to slot back where it belongs.

\---

6.

“Potter? I meant it when I said is no problem. You are still the same, as am I, vodka or no! What difference does it make? I am just happy to see you, been too long - ” 

“It’s not - ” you choke on nothing, clear your throat, try again. “It’s not about that. I mean, it’s just a lot, you know? Being here, seeing you. I’ve been trying to change and you’re still so much the same. Not in a bad way!” you rushes to correct yourself at the look on Boris’ face. “Not in a bad way at all. I mean, it’s great to see you. It just feels like…”

“Old times, eh?”

You bark a laugh, clicking your Zippo over and over. Light, darkness. Light, darkness.

“Yeah, sure. Old times, except we’re both going to remember this in the morning.”

A long beat. Boris reaches over to take the cigarette, but you jerk away. His hand flops uselessly to his side and he stares at you, incredulous. Burning with shame and desire, desperate to explain yourself, you begin to babble.

“It’s just - there are things about me, things about _us_, that didn't used to matter so much when I was high. And I know, it’s like you said, we were just fucked-up kids, but it feels like a lot right now, you know? And Amsterdam was - intense, and not just because of the painting. And-”

Boris _ tsks, _pinches the bridge of his nose. “I should not have said that, Theo, about us just being kids. Forgive me. You just looked so angry, and scared, and I didn’t want you to be mad-”

“Well, I’m still angry, and I’m still scared.” 

Boris throws up his hands. “What are you so scared of? Is only me. Same old Boris.”

“That’s the scary part!”

He sighs, watching as you count your breaths. Eventually, he reaches for you again, his fingers closing tight around your wrist as you try to flinch away. Trapped.

You squeeze your eyes shut as white-hot lightning surges from the point of contact, panic rising in your throat. When you focus on your breathing, you hear Boris breathing with you. 

“See, not so bad, eh?” He is teasing you, but the undercurrent of affection in his voice makes your heart ache. “Doesn’t have to be scary. Easy, like this. You need to be out of your mind to do this?” 

He laces his fingers through yours and squeezes. The hysteria is ebbing, but the warmth remains. You will yourself to look at Boris straight on.

_ In-Two-Three-Four _

_ Hold-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven _

_ Out-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven-Eight..._

“No. I guess not.”

\--- 

7.

The next time you see each other, Boris insists on a coffee shop. No booze. 

You take his hand right away.

\---

8.

No, nothing is going to feel like getting high again. Good feelings are different now. Warm honey in your veins. Slower. Safer. Maybe even better.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Pablo Neruda, epigraph from Emily Dickinson.
> 
> This is the first fic I've written since...2008? 2009? I'm a sober alcoholic and I wanted to see how Theo would handle that process. In my experience it is rather difficult to be both sober and remain closeted so I can imagine the house of cards falling down pretty quickly.
> 
> If YOU know the secret codeword that will release me from this The Goldfinch/boreo vortex of tears and horniness i’ve been trapped in for two weeks, please share it with me on tumblr: @yonicdrivein
> 
> h/t hexameters for convincing me to write this and betaing for me, you a real one.


End file.
